Of Beards and Elven History
by Madam Grey
Summary: M!Hawke/Merrill. "And I would know dirty," she added, and he got the distinct feeling from the lecherous grin spreading across her face the note of unabashed triumph in her voice was at his expense.


I can't seem to get Hawke/Merrill out of my head. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

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><p>"What do they mean?" Hawke asked, tracing the Vallaslin on Merrill's face. She snuggled closer against his chest, her legs dangling over the side of the large cushiony chair. Reaching up she pulled gently on his beard and sighed in exasperation.<p>

"I've told you before. Blood writing is a mark of adulthood-,"

"No, I meant: why did you choose this pattern?" he interrupted, rubbing his chin. He hated it when she did that, it always tickled and made his chin itch. "I read that Vallaslin depict a symbol of a Creator that represents you." He smirked at her look of astonishment. "You're the one who leaves your books out. That's like practically encouraging me to learn!" Kissing her nose, he added huskily, "Besides, some of those legends are quite naughty."

Her brows furrowed and she gave him _that_ look. The one that sent her eye balls rolling her sockets, eerily able to capture any light in the room, regardless of its source, and seemed to send a message that, while she thought he was a complete, misguided idiot, his ways were still redeemable. "They're not dirty!" she exclaimed, shifting on his lap to look him directly in the face. "And I would know dirty," she added, and he got the distinct feeling from the lecherous grin spreading across her face the note of unabashed triumph in her voice was at his expense.

Hawke chuckled, "I meant naughty not dirty. Mythal merely touches Elgar'nan's brow and calms and humbles him. I'm sure that's all she touched. Her recent emergence from the water and her power of lapping waves most definitely had something to do with it," he waggled is eyebrows suggestively, only to be meet with wide blinking eyes.

"Lapping waves? The story does not mention that."

"I'll let you think about that." So much for her worldly knowledge of dirty things, he thought with a twinge of disappointment. "You haven't answered my question."

"I'll let you think about that," Merrill echoed in a defiant tone.

He brought his fingers up to her face and lightly traced the markings along her cheek. "I've never seen you use a bow so it can't be Andruil. Is it Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets?" To emphasize his point he tapped her cheek, "these markings do remind me of wings: representing the two ravens that were once bound to him?" She shook her head in response. "Yes, I suppose Fear and Deceit do sound a little dark for you. Although, you say it is a Keeper's job to keep the secrets and legends."

"A Keeper's role is to preserve Elven culture, magic, and history. Among the Dalish, we do not keep the secrets through fear and deceit," she replied patiently.

"But Dirthamen considers the bear his sacred animal because it kept its secret."

"Ma'vhenan, that is true, but Vallaslin is personal. Guess again."

Deep in thought, he looked past her at the rows of books lining the shelves in the library. Admittedly, he had only read _Da'Eraen Elvhen_, thus his knowledge on anymore more than the most basic Elven lore was limited. "What about Sylaise?" At her giggle, he looked down and tried to peer into her eyes. "Wrong again? She reminded me of you, always ready to teach and show the Dalish something new."

Merrill giggled again, "You really have been reading my books!"

"I happen to be an excellent listener," he countered matter-of-factly, embracing her tightly.

"Then how come you still haven't picked up your socks? I asked you three days ago!"

"Pardon, did you say something?" He planted a kiss on her forehead at her sigh of exasperation. Much to his annoyance, she tugged at his beard again. "Ouch! I get the feeling you're trying to pull my hair out. It doesn't deserve that: for nine years it has faithfully warmed my face."

She tugged it again and he batted her hand away. "It looks like a rabid squirrel attacked your face. I'm just checking to make sure nothing else has moved in."

"I thought you liked my beard," he replied, rubbing his sore chin.

"Oh I do, but I think it could use a trim once and awhile. It has gotten a bit long and scraggly. Sometimes it tickles my nose when I sleep and other times I could swear I've found crumbs in it. You shouldn't use it as a bib, that can't be healthy."

"Fine, fine I'll trim my beard," he huffed and shook his head, "Maker, but you are difficult. Here I am trying to have a conversation about Elven lore and all you do is talk about my beard. Merrill, I think you need to set your priorities straight."

She giggled, "Sorry, ma'vhenan. Continue please."

"I can't see why you would pick June over Sylaise or Falon'din over Dirthamen." He eyed her suspiciously. "You purposely made this hard. Do the Dalish often pick the most obscure symbol to tattoo themselves with?"

"Well sometimes," she admitted bashfully, "I remember Tamlen purposely set out to do just that. He chose to represent June and asked for lots of swirling lines, instead of the usual weave pattern. He said that the swirling lines symbolized the ironbark used to fashion the first bows. He sat at his Vallaslin ritual for hours! Master Ilen looked exhausted when he finished." The look of delight on her face as she told him the story sent a feeling of giddiness through him. Merrill had been very distant recently, visiting her alienage hovel early in the morning and returning home late at night. This evening had been their first time together in a week. He pulled her closer, and dipped his head to brush his lips against her own. A sigh of contentment escaped her as he gently caressed her arm.

"I give up," he whispered, deciding he much rather show her his knowledge of 'pleasing ones elven lover'.

Humming she brushed her nose against his throat. "The mighty Champion of Kirkwall is giving up already?" Hawke grunted in acknowledgement and reached to tilt her head up but Merrill pushed his fingers away and buried her face in his shoulder. He growled her name. "Oh, I see I still have much to teach you, Hawke."

"Do you now?" he challenged while his hand moved again to tilt her head up. She grasped the adventurous appendage and held it between them.

"Who else do you know?" He dropped his head in defeat at her question and sighed. He did not want to continue this game, not when he could think of better things to do. Besides Hawke did not want to show her knew too much, or else he had the distinct impression that she would make him read more books. They would probably be long books too.

"_Maker_, Merrill-," he began in frustration, only to be cut off by the warm, wet feeling sliding up his neck. With a groan, he stretched his neck to the side, her tongue lapping at his throat. She had never done this before. He idly wondered if she would run her tongue along his neck more often if he read Elven history. He would even read long books if she did so! "Ah, it's Mythal."


End file.
